


Many Faces, Many Masks

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3010919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same Clara, same masquerade, two very different Doctors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Faces, Many Masks

**Author's Note:**

> This story is actually inspired in part by a pair of masquerade masks that Best Beloved and I got from my parents--I thought they looked really cool, and things went from there. 
> 
> I was also inspired by a prompt from the eleven-era kink-meme: either asexual!Eleven and horny!Twelve or vice-versa. I'm not sure I buy the arrangement depicted, but it worked for this story.

Tonight the Doctor has a yen for the familiar. Which for him means revisiting a planet that he hasn't been to in a thousand years. “Go on,” he says, chivvying Clara towards the wardrobe. “Fancy dress.”

“Is this a date?” She teases, and her skirt swishes behind her. Mercy, he thinks. That bum. Shame he hadn't had her on the Orient Express; they could have cut the sexual tension with a dull knife.

“Well, I was thinking of picking up some chaperones,” he vacillates with a slight grin. Clara glares at him as she leaves. She thinks he's kidding! He does a bit of a side-step, shuffling dance as he parks the TARDIS on Paternoster Row.

“Double-date, then?” Clara asks when she returns in a wine-red ballgown. Doesn't miss a trick, this one. “Or were you not kidding about the chaperones? Hello, by the way.” Jenny and Vastra wave in response, and take up the positions of amused spectators.

“We're going to the Trebarran Masque,” the Doctor explains. “One of the fanciest balls in all of history.” He dons a simple black half-mask, and tosses her a more complicated, velvety number. “Dancing, culture, and debauchery. The only catch, in fact, the only rule, is that you have to keep your face covered.” He shrugs minutely. “Or they incinerate you.”

“Doctor?” Clara's brow furrows just before she slips on the mask. “Don't mean to be rude,” it just happens naturally, the back of her mind slips in, “but that sounds awfully familiar.”

He freezes. “Well, it is possible that a previous version of me may have taken you there. But that was a thousand years ago; surely your human mind has forgotten most of the details!”

“It was eight months ago!” Clara practically shouts. Just because some of us can spend a millennium dying on Trenzalore... 

“Are you sure? I distinctly remember it being much longer.” Jenny, grandmistress of tact, interrupts him with a cough. “Are you feeling well?” She stares blankly at him. “That reminds me,” he continues. “Would you mind making sure Clara and I don't run into our past selves?”

“I should have thought that you were too old to require a chaperone,” Vastra jokes. 

“Won't the old you recognize us?” Jenny asks. 

“You'll have masks!” the Doctor counters. “Honestly, you'd think you were the only lesbian, human-Silurian couple in the galaxy.”

***

What the hell, Clara thinks as they step out onto the dance floor. It really isn't the worst thing in the world to go to a fancy dress ball twice in a year. She remembers savoring the architecture of the hall—hundreds of alcoves swooping up into infinity from the floor to the domed ceiling. She remembers chatting with the first of her Doctors over a cup of the punch. It had been even more overwhelming than the market on Akhaten because here she suspected that she had to follow a social code she couldn't even detect, let alone understand. 

Now, however, she is out of control in an entirely different way, with her Doctor guiding her around the floor, keeping her from treading on toe and tentacle alike. She spares a quick glance about the room; is she imagining a pair of purple-sleeved arms far above the crowd, waggling back and forth? She smiles at the memory, and is pleased to find the Doctor smiling as well. “You're much more dignified now,” she tells him.

“Is that a compliment?” the Doctor wonders, grin on his thin lips. 

“Maybe for you,” she decides, “but not for him.” She grins, a little-lightheaded—she hasn't even had any champagne yet—and finds herself in the shadow of one of the countless alcoves. Her mouth suddenly runs dry and she wishes for a flute. The lovers' alcoves, she thinks.

A thousand years ago, or a few months, depending on your point of view...

The Doctor is explaining the cloaking technology which lets each of the tens of thousands of little porches which connect onto the alcoves have a perfect view of the canyon beneath them while maintaining perfect privacy. There is jargon and flapping of hands, and Clara nods, and looks up at him with wide eyes, trying to understand but mostly just enjoying the rise and fall of his voice and the caress of the breeze. She wants to lift her mask and feel it on her face, but the Doctor has hinted broadly at the consequences. 

He hesitates, and she notices. The sudden plummet in letter-to-word ratio can't help but be noticed either. “Hang on,” she says. “Explain that again.”

“The porches,” he says. “Designed for lovers'...meetings. Unions of kindred spirits,” he continues, breezing past the pause. His head dips towards hers. “May I, Clara Oswald?”

If unions means what she thinks it does... “Yes,” she says, absolutely certain about what she wants. 

With surprising coordination, the Doctor swoops her down for a kiss, bending her back just enough to let her keep her footing. No chin poking everywhere, not even the slightest click of the teeth. She is not an easily impressed woman, but the Doctor has done a bang-up job, she decides, his arms warm around her. She thinks she can feel the fabric of time warping around her.

As they straighten up, she reaches a hand down to the Doctor's groin; to her surprise, he pulls away. 

Later...

Jenny may have opted for the white tuxedo (and a very dashing figure she cuts in it), but Vastra very rarely gets to feel the air on her scales, and so she has chosen a gown which, if it did not cling to her body, would probably have fallen off. Not that anyone would have batted an eye—as the Doctor said, the only rule is to wear a mask, and there are more guests than one without a stitch more. Still, this will do for now, she thinks, her wife's hand resting on the ridges of her back as she guides the Silurian across the floor at a breakneck pace. 

She grins with the exertion; they are both in peak physical condition (Strax, adorably, has even drawn up personalized training regimens), but they so rarely get to demonstrate off the job. Or out of bed. Both the Doctors have taken their respective Claras onto their respective porches, and now they can let their guards down, just a little. She wonders if they could steal a few moments on a porch themselves, but duty calls. And, frankly, they can fuck at home. Dancing like this, before an appreciative crowd... That is a pleasure to be savored, she decides, and twirls between couples and trios.

Elsewhere...

“No offense, Doctor,” Clara says as he stands in the doorway, “but last time was a little awkward.” She doesn't mention Danny. He doesn't mention Danny.

“New me, new mouth,” he beams, heedless of her objection. “Might taste different.” She rolls her eyes, but she follows him onto the porch after a few seconds because she would follow him anywhere. Probably to her death, someday. And what the hell, at least the view was magnificent.

“Hang on,” she says. “Do you mean I'll taste different to you, or you'll taste different to me?” Her jaw drops as she sees the doctor, already stripped to his shorts and mask, gleaming at her in the moonlight. 

“New me, remember.” He teases the puff of gray hair on his chest with his fingers. “Not sure how I feel about this one yet. Might have to get a second opinion.” He raises those eyebrows at her in inviting jest.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Clara notes dryly. “But definitely the good kind of surprise.”

Earlier...

“Doctor?” she asks. “What's wrong?”

“I don't...doesn't...I'm not interested in...” he makes a helplessly flaily gesture which she successfully interprets to mean “sexual intercourse.” 

“What was all that with the kissing then?” she asks, trying to keep the annoyed edge out of her voice. “Not that that wasn't some kiss—I knew you must have practiced.”

He ignores the barb. “I like all the leading-up bits,” he explains. “The fancy dress, the flirting, even the kissing. That was a bit of a surprise, actually, the first time.” He frets with his hands. “Good kind of surprise,” he assures her. She cocks her head at him. She can tell this is meaning to go somewhere, but she doesn't quite understand him yet. He frowns and goes over to the balcony. “Picture a house, filled with rooms, a different room for everything.

She nods. “Like the TARDIS.”

“Including one room just for kissing.”

“Very like the TARDIS.”

“And one for...shagging.” He says the last word quietly. “I just don't want to go into that room, except it isn't at all like that.” She nods. She's an English teacher. She understands metaphors. And she certainly loves the Doctor enough to respect him in this. “Would you want to stand close together for a while?”

She smiles softly at him. “I'd like that.” Not like she really wanted to raise a peck of half-alien babies anyway. His arms fold around her, and if his chin jabs the crown of her head, she doesn't mention it.

Later...

Clara is, frankly, breathless by the time they finish. The Doctor, on the other hand, has popped up, fresh as a daisy, and is already starting to get dressed. “What gives?” she asks. “Without getting into the science-y bits.” She doesn't have the brainpower for science-y bits.

He gestures at his body. “Does this look like a cuddling body to you? It's all hard edges and bones and eyebrows.” He glares. “Not even a bit of cuddle in me.” He tries, badly, not to look like he isn't staring at her naked body. She grins. 

“I still don't think you get a choice,” she laughs, and grabs him by the forearm. He sits stiffly on the bench and tugs on his shoes.

“My feet were getting cold,” he explains. He glowers as she wraps around him. “I definitely don't do this lovey-dovey stuff.” 

“Burned right out of you on Trenzalore, huh?” His face sours even further. “I know, I know: not my boyfriend. Fuckbuddy, apparently.”

A short, crisp laugh. She smiles, nuzzles against his thigh, but then subtly shifts her body to make it easy for him to stand. He accepts her unspoken invitation, and finishes dressing. “Thanks, boss,” he mutters, and that is how she knows that he is pleased after all.

“Just let me get dressed,” she says, “and then you can fetch me another glass of champagne: I'm parched.” 

That's when it hits her: the glimmering of an idea, the ghost of a memory. “Come on, you,” she says with a toothy grin. He doesn't point out that she isn't dressed, just grabs her dress and her heels with the traces of a smile around his eyes. The boss will want those later.

She moves purposefully through the crowd, trusting to instinct and slowly-returning memory to guide her. She knows she's getting close when she spots Jenny and Vastra charging on an intercept course, and picks up the pace. “Hello!” she greets herself simultaneously.

“I had a feeling I might be seeing you here,” the younger Clara says as her Doctor stumbles forward to join them. She looks from Clara to the Doctor and back again with appreciative eyes.

“Two of you!” he splutters, hands in a frenzy. 

“Well, this is the cat among the pigeons,” Jenny mutters. “We'll just let you lot sort this one out,” and she stomps off, wife in tow.

The elder Clara's eyes twinkle as her Doctor catches up with her. “How's the refractory period, stick insect?”

“Bit of foreplay, I should think.”

“You know what to do, then,” she teases, and pushes him towards her younger self, taking her clothes as she does so. “I suppose I should get dressed—make you feel more comfortable.”

The Doctor averts his eyes. “Bending chains of causality to say goodbye is my trick,” he manages at last.

“Learn from the best, I always say.” There are tears forming at the corners of her eyes, but she doesn't bother trying to hide them.

Elsewhere...

Highly-competitive Jenny is more than a little frustrated by their failure, and judging by the way that Vastra is pressing against her in response to the sharp bites along her collarbone, her wife isn't going to mind helping her release a bit of it. Her hands work their way up scaled arms to the minimal shoulder straps, and the gown quickly puddles on the floor of the little porch. She grips Vastra by the shoulders and pushes down abruptly (though for all her strength, she doubts she has enough leverage to force the taller, equally powerful woman to her knees without her cooperation). 

Vastra smiles and her cool hands press against Jenny's thighs through the fabric of her trousers. Thumb and finger find zipper and tug, freeing the flesh-toned plastic cock strung to her wife's hips. “That's right,” Jenny grunts hoarsely. “Get my cock nice and wet for you.” Vastra's long, clever tongue traces up and down the toy as Jenny's hands earn fresh calluses around Vastra's crests. “That's good,” she mutters as the other end of the dildo shifts inside of her, so Vastra does it again and again until Jenny pushes her onto her back.

Inside...

“Doctor,” Clara asks, once she's wriggled into her dress. She takes a deep breath, and, as if to brace herself, sets both hands on his shoulders. “Am I a good woman?”

“Clara, my Clara,” he murmurs, and wonders what's happened to his impossible girl to make her ask; what's happened to him to make her come to him. “A very good woman indeed.” He draws her into a hug, and she doesn't resist. “I suppose if you're going to chance a hole in time and space, you may as well do it for a big question.”

She laughs and brushes a tear from her eye. “And I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Was mine bad?” he asks, drawing back, suddenly worried. “Wait, don't tell me!”

“It was fine,” she tells him anyway. “I just...” Needed to do it on my terms, she doesn't say. It sounds shallow. She's gotten better at spotting it. Instead she lets it trail off into a kiss. “Just...dance with me until the others get back.” He nods. She's forgotten how much she likes this one—not that she isn't fond of the current model. “Not sure how much time we'll have, only that it won't be enough,” she says, bitterly.

“Hey,” he says quietly, catching her eyes. “Isn't that always the case? So let's make it good? Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods, and they dance.


End file.
